


take it out on me

by biblionerd07



Series: broad-shouldered beasts [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Communication, Domestic, Established Relationship, Family, Food Issues, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 13:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10900371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: Being better at communication takes effort. Mickey's still got walls up Ian can't see over.





	take it out on me

**Author's Note:**

> Why not switch POV during a series that's been completely Mickey POV?

Ian wakes up with Mickey’s arm tight around his waist, the feeling of his body warm against Ian’s back. Ian resists the urge to stroke a finger down the back of Mickey’s hand. It’ll wake him up. Mickey’s a light sleeper, has been as long as Ian’s known him, for reasons obvious and heartbreaking. It used to be something Ian would think about too much, picture the outbursts that taught Mickey to wake up at a shift in the air, wonder how old Mickey was when he learned he was never safe. It used to fill up Ian’s whole chest with rage and sorrow and protectiveness and hurt. That summer after Mickey came out, he had trouble sleeping a lot, and Ian would have to promise to stay awake and keep watch to get Mickey to even close his eyes.

Ian wasn’t sleeping much those days anyway.

Prison didn’t help any. About once every two weeks, Ian can convince Mickey to take something to help him sleep, but he knows it scares Mickey. It scares him to not know he can spring into action if he needs to defend himself. Or defend his family.

Ian can’t see Mickey’s face, but he knows Mickey frowns even in his sleep. People always expect him to look softer when he’s asleep, but he doesn’t. These days, he looks _meaner_ asleep, because he’s really working on not scowling so much when he’s awake.

He’s not going to win any competitions or anything, but he’s trying, and it makes Ian want to kiss him just about every minute of the day. Not that that’s anything new, really. He buried that part of himself for a long time, but all it took was one glance of Mickey standing outside a kindergarten classroom, sweating and clenching his fists, to bring it all back.

Mickey’s breathing changes and Ian knows he’s awake. Ian twists around to face him. Mickey gives him a soft morning smile that makes Ian feel sort of like he’s dripping. He doesn’t know how else to describe it—like every part of him is melting down. It’s a good thing, he’d assured Mickey when he tried to explain it, but Mickey still looked weirded out and Ian hadn’t tried bringing it up again.

“Hi,” Ian whispers.

“Hey,” Mickey answers. He licks his lips before bringing them to Ian’s. He kisses so softly these days. Not _always_ —he’s still Mickey, and he can still get rough, both on accident and on purpose—but his default is no longer harsh.

Well, not with Ian, anyway.

“You’re thinking a lot,” Mickey comments, quirking an eyebrow. “Slow down, Einstein, it ain’t even eight am on a Saturday.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “You’re so charming.”

“One of us has to be.”

Ian laughs and untangles one hand to flip Mickey off. Mickey bites his finger and Ian digs a finger into Mickey’s ribs. Mickey hisses, the good kind that means he’s laughing and not the bad kind that means Ian’s about to get sucker-punched, and gets a leg around Ian’s to flip them over. He’s on top of Ian, grinning, and Ian feels light as a feather.

“Well look who learned how to fight!” Ian laughs. Mickey stills, and that’s that. Playful morning Mickey is gone. Ian sighs a little, just to himself, but doesn’t bother trying to get Mickey to talk about it. For all the strides he’s made, there are still some walls he won’t take down, not even for Ian.

Ian thinks it’s probably his own fault. Maybe Mickey won’t admit it, but there has to be some part of him that still doesn’t fully trust Ian, not after everything that happened before Mickey went in. And then how Ian acted when Mickey was inside. The meds make his memory a little hazy, put a weird cloud on things so his memories feel far away. Looking back on the Ian who told Mickey they were through and told him he only visited for Svetlana’s money is like watching a character on TV.

Mickey doesn’t have that luxury.

Ian’s saved from trying to figure out how to get Mickey’s smile back by Yevgeny knocking on the door. “Dad!” He calls, muffled like he’s got his face pressed against the wood. “Can I come in?”

Mickey glances around, making sure they’re both decent and there’s nothing incriminating lying around, then gives Ian a questioning look.

“Come on in, Yev,” Ian says by way of answer. Yevgeny falls through the door, vibrating with excitement, and Ian can feel Mickey tense even as a smile tugs at his lips. Mickey loves his son, no question about that, but he’s nervous around him, too. He’s only been home for eight months, and Ian doesn’t think he’ll be fully relaxed even after eight years. He’s so convinced he’s going to turn into Terry. It makes Ian want to kill Terry.

One more reason to add to the list.

“Dad, look!” Yevgeny screeches, making Mickey twitch a little. Ian loves Yevgeny too, but sometimes he wishes Yev would give Mickey a little longer in the mornings to gear up. He’s six and full of energy and noise, and sometimes Mickey needs everything around him to be calm and quiet. He won’t _admit_ that he needs it, of course, but Ian can tell when his hands go from twitching to shaking and when he’s fighting the urge to bolt. Ian’s been reading that transition for a long time.

“What?” Mickey asks, with all his Mickey charisma.

“I got a loose tooth!” Yevgeny reports proudly. “See?” He opens his mouth so he can demonstrate his wiggly bottom tooth with his tongue. Mickey looks at Ian and raises his eyebrows. He clearly has no idea how he’s supposed to respond. Ian would laugh at him if it wouldn’t bruise his pride.

“Wow, Yev!” Ian says, almost overexaggerating for Mickey’s benefit. Mickey rolls his eyes, understanding that he’s being mocked. Ian smirks at him and Mickey rolls his eyes again, bigger this time.

“Mama says the tooth fairy will come when it falls out! Do you know the tooth fairy?”

Mickey snickers. “I bet Ian does. He knows all kinds of fairies.”

Ian gives Mickey a dirty look as Yevgeny exclaims over this turn of good fortune. “Mama says the tooth fairy’s gonna buy my tooth from me!” He furrows his brow and Ian can’t believe how much he looks like Mickey. “What does she want my tooth for?”

“Good question,” Mickey says. “Sounds like a pedo thing.”

“Mick!” Ian scolds.

“What’s a pedo?” Yevgeny asks.

“Nothing,” Ian says warningly, but not fast enough, because Mickey’s already saying,

“A sick fuck who touches little kids.” Mickey’s new parent-training and kinder philosophy finally decide to kick in this morning, and he winces. “Uh. Well. I mean, that _is_ what a pedo is. And it’s bad. If any old person touches you, you tell me and I’ll kill ‘em. Got it?”

“Old people touch me all the time,” Yevgeny says, utterly lost.

“Touch your dick,” Mickey clarifies. Yevgeny looks down, brow furrowed.

“Why—”

“Hey, Yev, did your mom say how much the tooth fairy will give you?” Ian cuts in. They probably _should_ have a talk with Yevgeny about that kind of stuff, but he’d like it to be more put together than Mickey running his mouth and then trying to backpedal.

Yevgeny’s still got his eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he says, “Mama didn’t know American money. She said ask Ian.”

Mickey nods, and Ian has to admit, if anyone in this house is going to know how much the tooth fairy hands out, it can only be him. But just because Fiona cared didn’t mean they had any money. He usually got a nickel and the usual warning to hide it from Frank.

“Well, let’s see,” Ian says, tapping his chin dramatically like he’s deep in thought. Mickey snorts, but Ian can see him hiding a smile. Yevgeny’s watching him very seriously. “I think the tooth fairy will probably give you two quarters for your tooth.”

Yevgeny’s mouth drops open. “Two quarters?” He squeals. “I can buy candy at Dad’s work.”

“You buy candy and you’ll be seeing the tooth fairy more ‘cause your teeth’ll fucking rot,” Mickey tells him. Yevgeny shrugs.

“So what? They’ll come back. Grownup teeth.”

Mickey huffs out a laugh and the pride in his eyes makes Ian feel like he’s going to burst. “Well, you got me there.”

“Zhenya!” Svetlana calls. “Ten minutes!”

“Okay, Mama!” Yevgeny hollers back. “We’re going to Michael’s house.”

“Who’s Michael?” Mickey asks.

Yevgeny looks wounded. “Michael is my best friend!”

“I thought Adam was your best friend.”

“I thought it was that girl in your class with glasses,” Ian adds. “Izzy?”

Yevgeny gives them both a look full of unbridled scorn. “Adam _moved_ out of my class and Izzy is a _girl_.”

“Well ex-fucking- _‘scuse_ me,” Mickey mutters, making Ian laugh. Mickey cannot for the life of him keep track of Yevgeny’s friends. Ian can’t tell if Mickey really doesn’t know who they are or if he just likes making Yevgeny huff in exasperation as he explains for the twelfth time who every kid in his little horde is.

“My best friend is a girl,” Ian points out.

“The fuck you say?” Mickey protests.

“Mandy,” Ian reminds him. “Black hair, used to have a noise piercing? She’s your sister.”

Mickey flips him off. “I’m your best friend,” he says gruffly, looking away. He’s mostly teasing, but the fact that he looked away means he’s unsure of himself, and Ian’s words are suddenly all stopped up in his throat. He remembers when Mickey wouldn’t even admit they knew each other, when Mickey pretended Ian was just the only person around he could find to fuck. He rubs at Mickey’s knee.

“You’re something different,” he promises softly.

“You’re boyfriends,” Yevgeny supplies helpfully, giving Ian the pleasure of seeing that pleased-horrified-embarrassed look flash across Mickey’s face he always gets when someone uses that word.

“You better go get ready to see your friend,” Mickey tells Yevgeny.

“Okay, Dad,” Yevgeny says.

“And don’t mess with your tooth too much,” Ian adds as Yevgeny’s running out the door. “Let it fall out on its own.”

“Okay, Ian,” Yevgeny says.

“I can never tell if he’s giving me shit when he says that,” Mickey says.

Ian laughs. “Well, he _is_ your son,” he points out. “It wouldn’t be a crazy thing to think.”

“You got something to say, Gallagher?”

Ian loves when Mickey’s doing teasing-swagger. It’s different than his scared-swagger or even his actual badass-swagger. Teasing-swagger comes with a smirk and a promise in his eyes, a lightness to his limbs and his face that aren’t around nearly often enough.

Ian leans in and lets his breath ghost over Mickey’s lips, relishing the way Mickey immediately responds, eyes darkening. “I’m saying,” Ian murmurs, “you’re full of shit.”

Mickey laughs and shoves at Ian. “Fuck you.”

“No time,” Ian says regretfully. “I have to work today.”

Mickey laughs again and it might be Ian’s favorite sound. Maybe that’s kind of dramatic, but he doesn’t care. Mickey went years—decades, even—without laughing often, maybe never laughing for real, and he still doesn’t laugh enough now. Ian will drink it in when he can.

“These weekend shifts are busting my balls,” Mickey complains.

Ian smiles. “Careful, Mick. Starting to sound like you want me around.”

“Ah, fuck off,” Mickey grumbles, completely undercutting his words by pulling Ian’s face toward his for a kiss. Ian pats Mickey’s ass and gets out of bed, digging around in their dresser for his uniform.

“When’d you lose your first tooth?” He asks Mickey. “I didn’t lose mine until second grade. Fiona thought I was all fucked up.”

“I was five,” Mickey says, and his would-be casual voice makes the hair on the back of Ian’s neck stand up in warning. “Bashed my face on the front steps and it fell out.”

Ian closes his eyes for a second. “You fall down?” He asks quietly without turning around. Mickey’s quiet for long enough to answer Ian’s question.

“Terry,” he finally confirms. Ian clenches his hand into a fist. He knows Mickey’s father was horrific. He saw the extent of that first hand on that day he does his best to never, ever think about, even if it did give them Yevgeny and, fucked up as it is, Svetlana. But he’s never ready to hear the stories.

He turns to Mickey, who’s sitting up in the bed and seemingly not even phased by this memory. In the grand scheme of things, Ian figures that one rates low on the list. That makes it worse. Ian kisses the top of Mickey’s head and holds onto his shoulder for a second. Mickey doesn’t tense up, but he doesn’t respond for a minute. Ian silently thanks a god he mostly doesn’t believe exists when Mickey reaches up and laces his fingers through Ian’s.

“I’m alright,” he says. “Mom thought my teeth were gonna grow back all fucked up, but they’re okay.”

“I hate him,” Ian murmurs, almost against his will. “I hate everything he did to you.” He’s expecting Mickey to shrug, to say it doesn’t matter. But Mickey surprises him. It seems impossible that he can still do that, but he does.

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees. By anyone else’s standards, it’s nothing, not even the minimum amount of response for a conversation, let alone one about an abusive father. But for Mickey to even acknowledge that Terry’s actions warrant hate is a huge step. Ian thinks Mickey being a father himself is helping with that, making him realize that all fathers _don’t_ act like that, that they _shouldn’t_.

It’s not like Mickey was ever under any illusions that Terry was a good father. But he never even used to stay in the room if Ian tried to discuss Terry. This is almost the emotional equivalent of anyone else breaking down.

Ian kisses Mickey again, and even though it isn’t rare anymore, he still relishes the way Mickey kisses him back.

 

Ian talks to Mandy every day when he’s driving home from work. He doesn’t even remember how it turned into a routine, which is pretty much the way of habits, he guesses. But now if he misses his phone call with Mandy, his whole day falls to shit.

Even if she is just rambling on about a girl she hates at work. Ian’s suspecting her emotions toward this girl are a lot less hate than she’s suggesting.

“Her lipstick is fucking hideous, too,” Mandy finally winds down. Ian’s listening faithfully, because he loves Mandy with every fiber of his being. Also, he wants to be able to throw some of this back in her face when she inevitably sleeps with this girl.

“You’re noticing her lipstick?” He comments mildly.

“Oh, fuck you,” Mandy howls, catching his meaning immediately. “You think I’m complaining about her because I want to fuck her? I could do that easily. You think I couldn’t?”

“I’m not daring you,” Ian points out, which _is_ daring her. She’s not the Milkovich he’s living with, but she’s still a Milkovich, and Ian likes to think he’s pretty fluent in them.

“Like you don’t notice lipstick colors,” Mandy says disdainfully.

Ian snorts. “Not that kinda gay guy, Mands.”

“I know,” she teases mournfully. “I couldn’t even fall for the right _gay_ guy.”

Ian laughs. “You sign up for your classes yet?”

Mandy blows a gusty breath in his ear. “Yeah,” she admits, getting shy the way she does when she’s proud of something. That’s okay; Ian’ll be excited enough for the both of them.

“Mandy!” He cries. “That’s amazing! What are you taking?”

“Well…” She starts, still trying to hold back. She doesn’t last long. “I’m only taking two classes right now, so I can still work. So I’m just taking English and psychology.”

“Oh, great,” Ian groans. “Psych. You’re gonna start trying to shrink us.”

Mandy scoffs. “I ain’t shrinking anyone for free, and everyone we know needs way more than an intro class could ever give.”

“That’s true,” Ian says. “I think I’m single-handedly paying for Dr. Saria’s daughter’s braces.”

Mandy huffs. “Like you pay for your own therapist.”

“Hey!” Ian protests. “I pay health insurance costs every month. It’s called a premium.”

“And a deductible,” Mandy says. “I have health insurance, too. It’s not that special.”

Ian can’t help but laugh. “You ever think how weird it is that we’re adults who have health insurance?”

Mandy laughs too. “Shit, it’s weird we’re _adults_. I never thought I’d live this long.”

She says it easily, a throw-away comment that most kids from their neighborhood would agree with, but it knocks the wind out of Ian. He thinks of a fundraiser at the Alibi and bruises on her face. He’s grateful he’s already home so he doesn’t have to worry about driving blind through the tears in his eyes.

“Glad you did,” he says softly. She doesn’t say anything for a second, but he can tell from her breathing she feels his mood shift.

“You too,” she shoots back. “You taking care of my brother?”

“Much as he lets me.” Ian tips his head back to rest on the seat and closes his eyes. He’s tired. “You know how he is.”

Mandy hums agreement. “He’s better now, though.”

“So much better,” Ian agrees. “I love it.”

“Gross,” she jokes. “You home yet?”

“Yeah, just pulled in,” he says. “But we can keep talking if you want.”

“Nah, go inside and fuck my brother.”

“I will,” he promises, making her fake-gag in his ear. “Go fuck your arch-nemesis.”

“Fuck you,” she laughs. Then she hangs up. The Milkoviches aren’t great at phone etiquette. Or any etiquette, for that matter.

Ian can hear Yevgeny before he even opens the door. Damn but that kid has a set of lungs on him. They should’ve known, what with all the screaming he did as a baby. He’s got a temper, too, courtesy of both parents.

Sure enough, when Ian gets inside it’s to find Yevgeny sitting on the floor, face tear-streaked and scrunched up in a scowl. He’s not wearing his glasses, always takes them off when he cries, so it looks like someone shrank Mickey down to miniature. Ian knows he shouldn’t laugh at tantrums, but Yevgeny looks so much like Mickey when he screams and is so much more _harmless_ than Mickey ever is that it just strikes him as funny.

“What’s going on here?” Ian asks. Mickey’s nowhere in sight but Ian can see a tendril of smoke on the back porch, so he probably took a walk to calm down. Svetlana doesn’t seem to be home, which probably escalated everything. Mickey’s never sure enough of his own ability to discipline Yevgeny effectively without hurting him, and he always ends up letting Yevgeny build up steam. Then Yevgeny’s screaming gets to Mickey, and Mickey’s extra tension gets to Yevgeny, and the whole thing is way worse than it needs to be.

“Dad won’t let me eat dinner!” Yevgeny screams. Ian raises his eyebrows. He finds it highly unlikely that Mickey’s not letting his son eat, but he’s not going to call Yev a liar.

“He’s not, huh?” Ian asks, sitting down beside Yevgeny. “He got a reason?”

“Because he’s a _bastard_!” Yevgeny insists, devolving into screaming again. Ian would love to just walk away. Carl had pretty bad tantrums, but Ian wasn’t old enough to do much more than shove him and tell him to shut up. Liam never had tantrums. For all Mickey’s insistence that Ian’s better at this parenting stuff, Ian’s never really had to handle tantrums. All he knows is Mickey’s not going to calm down until Yevgeny does, and even then he’ll be beating himself up for at least a day.

“Yevgeny,” Ian says, using his firm work voice. “That is not a nice word to use, especially about your dad.”

Yevgeny’s crying again, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. He swipes at them angrily, using the heels of his hands the same way Mickey does. “He’s being mean to me.”

“What happened?” Ian asks, opening his arms. Yevgeny considers for a second and decides to stay put, which isn’t a great sign.

“I said I wanted noodles for dinner and Dad said no.”

Ian’s starting to get a better picture of what happened now, mostly because this happens at least once a week. “Did you say you want noodles after Dad made something else?”

Yevgeny juts his chin out, which is a yes. Ian cranes his neck up and sure enough, there’s a plate on the table with chicken nuggets on it, Yev’s abandoned glasses thrown haphazardly beside it. Not exactly a culinary masterpiece, sure, but at least Mickey’s trying. What kid doesn’t want chicken nuggets? Ian gets Mickey’s frustration.

The dinner argument is becoming a bit of a thing. Yevgeny’s always been kind of a picky eater—as far as Ian knows—but lately it’s getting worse and worse, with tantrums and screaming and refusing to eat anything at all. All three adults are close to their wits’ ends. It doesn’t help that none of them have parents to ask for advice. Ian’s pretty sure Yevgeny should be over this picky eating stage. He’s almost seven.

“Yev,” Ian says gently. “You know if you want something different you should tell your dad before he makes it. What’s he going to do with these chicken nuggets if you don’t eat them?”

Yevgeny hiccups. “Feed them to Sasha.”

Ian blinks. “Sasha?” Maybe it’s another new friend.

“The cat!” Yevgeny reminds him. Oh, right. A stray cat Yevgeny’s been feeding. (And Mickey, though he will deny it until the day he dies. But Ian saw him do it.) Ian didn’t realize they’d named it.

“Oh, Sasha,” he obliges. “Yeah. Well, I don’t know if cats like chicken nuggets.”

“Sasha does,” Yevgeny says confidently. “He told me.”

Ian doesn’t bother trying to combat that logic. “Your dad made those chicken nuggets for you, Yev. Don’t you think it makes him feel bad if you don’t eat them?” Ian’s not sure if this counts as manipulation. Is this a bad thing to teach a kid? Is he going to give Yevgeny some kind of complex? He has no idea. The kid’s being raised by three people who never had the luxury of being picky; they’re all out of their depth here.

Yevgeny sighs. “I don’t know,” he mutters, scowl firmly in place. “I want noodles.”

“You remember we talked about protein?” Ian switches gears. “Noodles don’t really have protein in them.”

Yevgeny bites his lip, exactly like Mickey does. “I need protein to get big muscles like you and Dad.”

“That’s right,” Ian agrees, trying not to sound hopeful. Yevgeny can always sense when Ian’s getting too confident in winning the battle and will devolve back into screaming. “Chicken has tons of protein.”

Yevgeny considers this information. “I don’t want chicken,” he insists stubbornly. “It’s not good.”

Ian rubs his eyes. He’s exhausted. He already had to deal with a stabbing, a heart attack, and a kid who threw up on him. He’s not really in the mood to coax Yevgeny into eating two chicken nuggets. He takes a deep breath and counts to ten. He’s not going to lose his temper. That would defeat the purpose of Mickey fucking off to the porch.

“How about this,” Ian tries. “Chicken tonight, since Dad already made it. You can put ketchup on it. Or barbeque sauce. Or ranch. Whatever you want. And we’ll have noodles tomorrow night, okay? I promise.”

For a second, Ian thinks Yevgeny’s going to stick to his guns and say no. If he does, Ian’s going to have to go join Mickey on the porch. There’s only so much he can take. But Yevgeny heaves a sigh that lifts his little shoulders halfway up his head and stands up.

“Fine,” he says sullenly. Ian could cry with happiness. He doesn’t even care that Yevgeny eats one chicken nugget, face wrinkled up the whole time, and just mutilates the other two on the plate. And the kid eats the peas with no protest. It makes no sense.

Mickey doesn’t come back in even after Yevgeny’s back to happily singing. Ian eats his own chicken nuggets, carefully wrapped in foil to keep them warm, and glances out the back window. He can just see Mickey’s boot where he’s resting his foot on the railing, but the chair Mickey’s sitting in is out of sight from the kitchen. Ian leaves Yevgeny scribbling at the table and goes out there.

“Hey,” he says. “Kinda cold out here.” It’s May, so it’s not freezing, but the sun went down an hour ago and spring’s taking its time.

Mickey blows out a breath and passes shaky hands over his eyes. “I can’t fucking do this.”

Ian bites back a curl of irritation. What is this, National Ian Deals with Everyone’s Shit Day? But then he feels guilty about even thinking it. This is his _family_. Their shit is his shit. And Mickey’s sort of losing it out here, all alone with no coat on because he’s afraid if he goes back inside he’ll smack his kid around like _his_ father always did to him.

Alright, that puts things into perspective a little better. Ian sighs and sits down sideways across Mickey’s lap. Mickey huffs but wraps his arm around Ian’s waist. Ian rests his forehead against Mickey’s temple.

“You’re doing way better with Yev than anyone would’ve ever thought you would,” Ian tells him softly. “You’re proving all those bastards wrong, Mick. You’re a good dad.”

“I couldn’t get him to fucking eat,” Mickey protests, voice trembling.

“Yeah, and last week I couldn’t, either,” Ian reminds him. “Your kid’s picky.”

“Should be grateful he gets to eat anything at all,” Mickey mutters. Ian nuzzles at Mickey’s face.

“That really how you want him to feel?”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, because the answer’s obvious. He rubs Ian’s back instead. “How was work?”

“Kid puked on me,” Ian reports. Mickey breathes out a sound that’s almost a laugh.

“He got some weird disease you’re gonna pick up?” He checks. “Bird flu or something?”

Ian doesn’t mention that bird flu mostly got resolved while Mickey was in prison. He doesn’t like reminding Mickey of all the things he got left behind on, like new developments in medicine and technology and TV shows.

“He had chicken pox,” Ian says. “Which I already had, so I’m good.”

“You can get it again,” Mickey says. “Can’t you? My cousin got it three fucking times.”

_He probably didn’t,_ Ian thinks, _but maybe they used that excuse to keep him out of school three times and explain some scars_. Out loud he says, “Shingles, maybe. The virus can stay in some people’s bodies. But I think I’ll be alright.”

“Your immune system’s lower,” Mickey says, like Ian needs a reminder. Like his pill box isn’t a reminder. Like Mickey’s careful eyes aren’t a reminder. Like Ian’s own fucked up head isn’t a reminder.

“I guess we’ll find out,” he says instead of any of that. Mickey sighs a little and tips his head down to mouth at Ian’s jaw.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Hovering. Know you hate it.”

Ian tilts his head to give Mickey better access. “I don’t hate it.” It’s not a complete lie. He’s teaching himself not to hate it. Mickey doesn’t keep track of Ian’s pills and doctor’s orders and sleep schedule because he thinks Ian’s an idiot who can’t do it himself. Mickey does it because he loves Ian and wants to know he’s okay. Ian had a hard time understanding that when he was seventeen, but he’s not seventeen anymore. He figures he’s one of four people on earth who can say Mickey regularly hovers over them, so really, it’s an honor.

“Yeah, you fucking do,” Mickey argues without any heat. “You just deal with it.”

Ian huffs. “I just deal with you,” he says. “You’re tolerable.”

He finally gets a laugh from Mickey, even if it is a small one. “My goal in life.”

Ian’s smiling now, back to a baseline after dealing with Yevgeny. He feels guilty that he thinks of it as _dealing_ with Yevgeny, that it drains him so much. But he thinks, for once, that’s a normal feeling for someone raising a six-year-old.

Ian puts a finger under Mickey’s chin to tilt his face up. He loves the way Mickey goes willingly, pliant in Ian’s hands. That used to feel like a distant dream that would never come true, back when everything was a stutter-step forward and five steps back. Mickey’s not quite back to where he was before everything went to shit, still tenses up sometimes when Ian moves too quickly toward him, still snarls first when he’d finally gotten to a point where he could talk rationally with Ian, but Ian figures it’ll come back with time.

“Ready to go back in?” Ian asks, skimming a hand through Mickey’s hair. It’s getting long. Ian wonders what Mickey’s going to do about cutting it. Mandy used to do it for him, but she probably won’t be visiting soon since she’s starting school. “Who cut your hair inside?” Ian asks before Mickey can answer the first question.

Mickey tenses up. “Guy named Ramone. Why?”

Ian shrugs. “Just thinking about how Mandy used to do it. Figured she didn’t come visit the prison to give you haircuts.”

Mickey snorts. “She didn’t come visit me at all.”

Ian didn’t know that. He just assumed she did. He pushes back a little to look at Mickey’s face. “She didn’t?”

Mickey runs his thumb over his bottom lip. “Nah. Svet and the kid came once a month.” He doesn’t finish the thought, but Ian gets it. _And no one else came at all_. He drops his head to rest on Mickey’s shoulder, presses his lips to the cold skin of Mickey’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Whatever,” Mickey says. “Long time ago.”

“Mick, you were in there less than a year ago.”

“Whatever,” Mickey repeats, harsher this time. “It doesn’t fucking matter.”

“Yeah, it does, Mickey,” Ian argues softly. “I wish I would’ve visited you. But I was a shitshow pretty much the whole first three years you were gone. I probably would’ve made everything worse.” He sighs. “I just hate thinking about you being alone.”

Mickey doesn’t shove Ian off his lap, but he does push Ian away so he can stand up. “I wasn’t alone,” he points out, giving Ian an awful, twisted smile. “I had about a thousand other dudes around me all the time.”

Ian’s throat is almost too choked up to speak. “You know what I mean.”

Mickey turns away from him, heading back to the door. “Doesn’t matter now.”

Ian stays where he is for another minute, hearing the murmurs of Mickey and Yevgeny in the kitchen, the front door opening and Svetlana coming home. He feels useless sometimes, times like now. Mickey’s basically an open wound, painful and throbbing, but he won’t let anyone close enough to fix anything. They’re all just supposed to pretend not to notice. Ian can’t do that. He’s not going to let Mickey suffer through, pretend he’s fine, hurt alone like he’s done his whole life. Mickey deserves better.

He just wishes he could get Mickey to agree with him.

He sighs and goes back inside. When they go to bed, Mickey kisses him the same way he does every night, laces their fingers together as Ian eases inside him. He just acts like they never had that conversation. Or maybe it’s his way of showing Ian he’s forgiven. The thing with Mickey is that everything he does means something. Or means more than one thing. People have always thought Mickey was exactly as meets the eye, nothing under the surface. It couldn’t be further from the truth. But Ian feels like he lost the meanings. Or Mickey went and wrote new meanings on his own, after Ian abandoned him.

“Something wrong?” Mickey snips, irritated. Ian starts. He doesn’t know how long he’s been frozen like that, deep in thought, but it’s not long enough for Mickey’s annoyance to slip into worry, so it couldn’t have been too long.

“Just making sure you’re ready,” Ian says.

“Come on, Gallagher,” Mickey taunts. “Show me what I’ve been waiting for all day.” He’s grinning, wiggling his eyebrows, and he looks like that seventeen-year-old making shitty puns to make Ian groan.

Well. Ian can stay deep in thought for days sometimes, trying to decode Mickey and figure out what he’s not saying. But right now, Mickey’s being pretty damn clear, so Ian figures he’ll go with what Mickey _is_ saying.

  


Sometimes Ian gets tired of how fucking _emotional_ their lives are. They both grew up hard, to put it lightly. They’ve got demons and ghosts and about forty broken hearts between them, a lot at each other’s hands. Ian’s brain doesn’t work how it should; Mickey’s got trauma about six layers deep before you even find an edge to peel back. But Ian misses that first perfect summer, working together in the Kash and Grab, getting to know each other for real.

He knew Mickey had to care, to keep coming back the way he did, but that summer was when Ian realized Mickey actually _liked_ him, even just a little. The memories aren’t completely clear one by one, but Ian has sense-memories of the whole summer: humidity, blasts of cold air in the walk-in, and Mickey’s warm hands brushing his as they passed a cigarette or a beer. The smell of dirt and grass at the dugout. The feel of concrete under his knees, a cold metal fence against his hands. Laughing. That giddy, roller-coaster feeling of stealing moments together whenever they could.

But now, all the years and hurt between them, even all the _I love you_ s and _I’m not leaving you_ s, are heavy. Ian’s proud of the relationship they built up from broken scraps of the people they were. They clawed their way into a love that might someday be described as _healthy_.

Sometimes he just misses being a stupid kid with Mickey.

So when Mickey wakes him up on his day off by punching him in the calf and saying, “Put some clothes on, douchebag, we’re going to a baseball game”, Ian goes with it. Mickey stopped calling him _douchebag_ a long time ago, but Ian’s been reading up on people reverting to old coping methods. He’s not exactly loving this one, but it’s better than Mickey reverting to, for example, kicking the shit out of Ian or anyone else surrounding Ian. Besides, If Mickey’s ever going to call Ian _babe_ it’ll take years and Ian might die of surprise. Ian misses names like _sleepy face_ , but douchebag works fine.

“Yev?” Ian asks through a yawn. He got in late last night, and he can see Mickey trying not to be visibly worried about that. They’ve got a sort of truce going on—Mickey tries not to let Ian see him hover, and Ian tries not to let Mickey see him get annoyed. Neither of them are doing a very good job, but they’re both pretending it’s fine.

“Nah,” Mickey says, tying his shoes instead of looking at Ian. “Just us today.”

Maybe Ian should feel guilty for how excited that makes him, but he can’t bring himself to care. So he’s a piece of shit—what can he do? He’s a product of his environment. He finds himself biting down on his smile before he remembers he doesn’t have to anymore. Mickey notices his grin and snorts, but he doesn’t fight his own smile back. He even holds Ian’s hand on the El, so it’s basically all of Ian’s teenage fantasies come true.

They get off at Wrigley and Ian shakes his head. “You get a Groupon or something?”

Mickey gives him a look. “Fucking serious?” He asks incredulously. “Getting soft in your old age, man. Come on.”

The idea of sneaking into a baseball game shouldn’t make Ian laugh wildly, but he is who he is. It involves a lot of giggling (Mickey will deny that he giggles, but he does), scowling, and not much actual sneaking, thanks to a bored ticket attendant who probably owes Mickey a bunch of back-pay for weed or something. They don’t even have to run from security. But it’s the closest to that carefree summer they’ve been in a long time, maybe since Ian’s diagnosis. Maybe longer.

“Want a hot dog?” Mickey asks.

“You know I love a good sausage in my mouth,” Ian says agreeably, loving the way Mickey cackles.

“Alright, get seats,” Mickey orders. “Be back in a little.”

The trick to not getting caught in stolen seats is to take seats good enough to be worth the risk but not so good anyone will wonder what two unwashed Southside kids are doing in them.

Ian starts when he realizes he and Mickey aren’t two unwashed Southside kids anymore. Sure, they always will be, deep down, but people look at them and see two _adults_. Even, it could be argued, _responsible_ adults. Mickey’s still got his knuckle tats, and that big-ass jagged scar down his cheek speaks pretty clearly to the kind of life he’s had, but Ian’s pretty clean-cut. And they both shower daily now and do laundry regularly. Their clothes aren’t four time hand-me-downs with holes big enough to fit a limb through.

Mickey’s back suspiciously fast for the beginning of a baseball game, carrying a tray with hot dogs, nachos, beers, and pretzels. Ian raises his eyebrows.

“We live here now or something?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “You didn’t eat breakfast,” he points out. “Gonna get the runs soon if you don’t eat something.”

Ian shakes his head. “And they say romance is dead.”

Mickey’s hands are full, but Ian knows he’d be flipping him if he could.

They’re hardly watching the game—Mickey’s never actually liked baseball all that much, though he does like to loudly complain that people should be hitting each other more—but they’re eating their junk food and belching at each other and having a generally good time. Ian looks over at Mickey, takes in the smear of cheese on the corner of his mouth, and almost can’t breathe with how much he loves that broken boy beside him.

“What?” Mickey demands. “Fuck you staring at?”

Ian shrugs, smiling. “It’s a good day,” he says. It’s not an answer, but a hint of a blush spreads across Mickey’s cheeks as he ducks his head, so he gets what Ian’s saying. Ian doesn’t think he’ll ever get over his delight at the fact that Mickey Milkovich, of all people, _blushes._

“Fags,” someone behind them coughs. Ian freezes, and his eyes immediately dart over to check on Mickey. His ears have gone all red, and it’s not in a good way.

“Mick,” Ian murmurs. Mickey ignores him and turns around.

“You fucking say something to me?”

Ian sighs but turns around too. Not like he has much choice. It’s a group of guys, probably Carl’s age, sneering and flipping them off. Ian rolls his eyes. He really thinks he deserves better than to be taunted by a bunch of frat boys, after everything he’s been through. Mickey certainly does.

Ian’s keeping an eye on Mickey, ready to follow his lead and start a brawl. It wouldn’t be a date with Mickey without one, really. A part of Ian is itching for it, even, blood already buzzing with adrenaline. Mickey glances around and licks his lips.

“Watch your goddamn mouth,” he growls.

And then he turns back around.

Ian tries not to let his mouth drop open in shock. Mickey’s knocked teeth out for less than that. Hell, he’s practically killed people who said something about him being gay even when they were being _positive_ about it.

“Or what, you’ll shove your cock in it?” The little ringleader taunts.

“You thinking about my cock in your mouth?” Mickey shoots back without missing a beat. The kid’s friends all hoot with laughter. Mickey’s fingers are clenched around the armrest so tight his knuckles are turning white. But he’s staying put in his seat. Ian can’t believe it.

“Fucking fairies don’t belong in public,” the kid spits. Ian’s getting that pit in his stomach that reminds him of running to Mandy to be his beard. He can’t shake the image of Terry’s gun cracking across Mickey’s skull. His breathing starts to pick up a little. There are at least five of those guys. He and Mickey can do some real damage, but they’re still outnumbered. Five on two can get some work in before security could get there.

Mickey swallows hard. His eyes are dating all around the field like he’s desperately trying to ignore the kid and keep watching the game. But Ian can see the way his throat’s working, the muscle in his jaw jumping. Mickey’s on the ledge.

Ian wants to tell him it’s alright. But he thinks that might make it worse. Any sign of comfort right now will solidify to Mickey that these guys think they’re right—that Mickey’s gay, that he’s weak for loving Ian. Anger sits heavy in Ian’s chest. He turns around.

“You trying to start something?”

“Just want you and your boyfriend to leave the rest of us alone.”

“Oh, shut up!” Some lady in Ian and Mickey’s row turns around to say. “They’re just watching the game, you fucking pussy.”

Mickey huffs a surprised breath at that. Ian wants to raise his eyebrows and say, _see?_ But he thinks maybe he doesn’t need to anymore. Mickey gets it.

Until the guy says, “Yeah, yeah, homo thug and his butterball boyfriend got equal rights.”

Ian sucks in a little breath against his will. His meds have made him gain some weight. He works out, so it’s not drastic. Or he didn’t think so, anyway. He’s noticed, and a few years ago it was reason enough to stay off the meds, but he’s mostly okay with it now. Doesn’t mean he wants this guy calling him a _butterball_.

Before he can ruminate on it further, Mickey’s vaulting over the back of the seat to slam his fist into the guy’s nose. The guy screams about it, because of course he’s the kind of guy to start a fight and not back up his words. One of the guy’s friends gets on his feet and Ian slugs him before he can even think about touching Mickey.

Some guy in their row starts reaching for Mickey and Ian swings at him too. “Take it easy!” The guy yells, and then Mickey’s turning, ready to back Ian up on this side too. The bloodlust dies down a little when Ian sees blind panic in Mickey’s eyes. Ian realizes security’s heading their way.

“Shit,” he breathes. “Mick, come on!”

He grabs Mickey’s elbow and pulls him away from their seats, climbing awkwardly over people’s legs as people scramble to get away from them. They get to the stairs and take off running.

Well, Ian thinks as they sprint to the El, he _was_ missing old times. When they get to the platform and have to stop to wait, Ian laughs. “Shit!” He says, giddy with nostalgia and adrenaline. “Feels like we’re kids again.” He slings an arm around Mickey’s neck.

Mickey shrugs him off.

Mickey’s avoiding his eyes, jaw clenched and hands twitching, turned slightly away from Ian. Ian’s stomach drops. This wasn’t part of the old days he was missing.

“Mick,” he says.

“Train’s coming,” Mickey says.

They don’t speak for the entire train ride. They don’t touch. Mickey won’t even look at him. Ian’s chest is squeezing like Yev’s sitting on it to watch TV. They get home and Mickey immediately heads to the back porch, the only place he smokes these days.

Ian goes to their room and takes a nap.

 

Ian and Mickey are tiptoeing around each other. It’s a weird feeling. Ian didn’t realize Mickey knew _how_ to tiptoe. But the chaste kisses and bland smiles are definite tiptoeing.

“Mickey,” Ian starts. “About the game.”

“I gotta get to work,” Mickey says, and then he leaves.

“Come on, Mick, let’s talk about it,” Ian tries again a day later.

“Yev!” Mickey yells. “Let’s read.”

Ian’s getting frustrated. “Mickey, we agreed!” He reminds Mickey as Mickey’s pretending to be asleep one night and Ian’s changing. “We said we were gonna talk. We said we were gonna _communicate_.”

“Nothing to talk about,” Mickey says. “We kicked ass like we always do.”

Ian swallows down his irritation. Something is going on under the surface with Mickey. And Ian can’t read it. He knows it has something to do with the guy at the game. But he can’t tell if it’s because the guy could tell Mickey was gay and Mickey thinks that’s a bad thing or if it’s Mickey’s old fears about getting caught.

It doesn’t make _sense_. If Mickey could come out to his father and deal with that fallout, how can he be upset with some random stranger? But if it’s not that Mickey’s afraid, Ian’ll be mad. After everything they’ve been through? Ian thought they were over this bullshit years ago.

_Sure, before you abandoned him_ , a little whisper in his head reminds him. Ian clenches his teeth. It’s not untrue. Mickey loved him, and Ian left. He doesn’t really get to be mad if Mickey’s got some of his old hang-ups back.

“Okay,” he says under his breath. “Fine. Whatever.” He slams the dresser drawer shut and climbs into bed. He turns to face the wall, away from Mickey.

He can tell Mickey’s awake. He’d been lying in bed for forty minutes before Ian even went in there; normally this would be a night Ian would urge him to take something. But instead Ian thinks petulantly, _fine, just look at the ceiling all night._

An hour later, they’re both still awake. They’re just lying there, not touching, not facing each other. Ian swallows. He’s not going to be the one to break. Mickey’s the one putting up walls right now. It’s not Ian’s fault. Unless it is. He wants to groan and shove his face in the pillow, but that’s kind of awkward when you’re engaged in a freeze-out with another person in the same bed. Most of Mickey’s walls are Ian’s fault.

Well, alright, no. Ian can blame himself for what he deserves, but years of therapy have taught him to be fair with himself, too. _Most_ of Mickey’s walls are Terry’s fault. A bunch are probably because of prison, too. And there are a few that are Ian’s fault.

It doesn’t make him feel much better than his original assessment.

Ian sighs. Mickey sighs. Ian gives Mickey kind of a stink eye over his shoulder, but Mickey can’t see it because it’s dark and he’s facing away. Then Ian rolls his eyes, at himself and at Mickey. This is ridiculous. Ian rolls over.

Immediately, Mickey rolls over too.

“Mick,” Ian starts.

“No,” Mickey cuts him off. “Go to sleep.”

“But Mick—”

“Go the fuck to sleep,” Mickey snaps. Then he kisses Ian, takes his hand, and rolls back to face the other side again. Ian considers pushing it, but decides to let it go. This is Mickey saying he’s not going anywhere. Ian will take the win.

 

After another knock-down drag-out fight over breakfast, Ian’s at his wit’s end. He doesn’t know what the fuck Yevgeny’s problem is. He’s been eating yogurt with no complaints for months, but suddenly he hates it. Mickey hadn’t exactly helped things by snapping, “Fine, go fucking hungry then” and storming out to go to work.

Ian has the day off, so he walks Yevgeny to school and drops by the house to see Fiona. He doesn’t know for sure she’ll be there, but he can’t find a shirt he wants so he’ll be busy even if she isn’t.

“Hey, sunshine!” Fiona greets him. She and V are eating eggs and drinking coffee. “I didn’t know you were gonna stop by.”

“Yeah, I should’ve called,” Ian says.

“Oh, shut up,” she scolds. “You want breakfast?”

“I’m okay,” he says. “Hey, you guys know anything about picky eaters?”

“Picky eaters?” V asks. “I think that’s for rich people.”

Ian laughs. “Yeah, thought so.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Yev’s got some issue with his food lately. Won’t eat anything we try to give him.”

“What’s he eat?” Fiona asks.

“Spaghetti. For every goddamn meal.”

Fiona cracks up laughing. “You liked spaghetti a lot,” she muses. “But not that much.”

Ian groans. “It’s not funny!” He insists, though it’s sort of funny outside the moment. “He screamed for twenty minutes this morning until I finally gave in and gave him spaghetti.”

“That’s fucking weird,” V says. “You smack him?”

“Uh, no,” Ian says delicately. He knows V swears by spanking, but it’s a bit of a touchy subject for Mickey.

“Oh, right,” V says. “Mickey’s one of those touchy-feely parents.”

Ian snorts at the idea of anyone ever describing Mickey as touchy-feely. “He just doesn’t want to be anything like Terry,” he says quietly.

“Well, can’t blame him for that,” Fiona cuts in. “I think I got one of those parenting books upstairs from when I lost all you guys.” Her face darkens and Ian gives her hand a squeeze. She smiles at him and squeezes back. “Let me go look upstairs.”

Ian snags the crust of her toast off her plate and munches a bit. Then he thinks of that drunk kid calling him _butterball_ at the game and the toast turns to lead in his throat.

“What’s that look?” V asks.

“Nothing,” he mumbles. He puts the toast down. “How’re the twins?”

“Monsters,” V sighs. “As usual. But they’re monsters who are reading, so that’s something.”

The back door opens and V’s face wrinkles in disgust before Ian can see who it is. He turns and feels his own face wrinkle up, too, because it’s Frank.

“What do you want?” Ian asks.

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you live here again?” Frank sneers. “I can’t keep track of when your convict is imprisoned or not.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Do _you_ live here again?”

“This is my—”

“Shut up, Frank!” Fiona yells from the stairs. She comes down with a book in her hands. “What are you doing here?” She sets the book on the table and Ian glances at the title. _Positive Parenting_. Mickey’s going to puke on the cover. Ian smiles a little at the thought of it.

“Oh, yes, you’re a _family_ man now.” Frank rolls his eyes and Ian rolls his right back.

“What would you know about that?” Ian shoots back.

“I put food on this table and _provided—_ ”

“Shut up, Frank,” Fiona, Ian, and V say together. Frank starts to bluster and draws himself up to his full height, which stopped being impressive when Ian was about thirteen.

“A father falls on hard times and his children just _abandon_ him.” He points a crooked finger at Ian. “Remember that. Your little bastard will throw you to the wolves the same way you did to me.”

“He’s not a bastard,” Ian says coldly.

“That’s right,” Frank laughs. “He has _two_ daddies, doesn’t he? Confused him yet?”

Ian clenches his jaw. So far, Yevgeny hasn’t asked any questions about Ian and Mickey. He asked Ian one time if he loved Mickey, and seemed completely satisfied once Ian assured him the answer was yes. How long is that going to last? Ian can’t imagine Mickey handling that conversation well.

Frank nods at the book. “Kids tend to act out when their needs aren’t being met, you know. Maybe you’re not doing so great after all.”

“Get out,” Fiona orders. When Frank gives her a dirty look, she gets up and starts moving toward him. “I’ll throw you out myself if I have to.”

“I have my dignity,” Frank says, which is a lie if Ian ever heard one. Dignity has never been something Frank seemed too interested in. But at least he leaves. Fiona locks the door after him and immediately turns to Ian.

“Don’t listen to him.”

“Ian, a lot of kids have weird shit with food,” V agrees. “Not your fault. If anything, having his dad just come back from prison is messing him up more than anything you’re doing.”

Fiona gives her best friend a dirty look. “Not so helpful.”

“Sorry.” V cringes. “I didn’t mean it was Mickey’s fault. None of us can believe how good he is with that kid.”

“Yev seems to just roll with everything,” Ian says. “But maybe he’s not handling all this well and we’re just ignoring it. It _is_ what Mickey does best,” he adds bitterly under his breath.

“That didn’t sound good,” V says. “Trouble in paradise?”

“No,” Ian says defensively. He bites his lip. “Mickey just, you know. He’s Mickey.” He shrugs. “He doesn’t like…”

“People?” V supplies.

“Feelings?” Fiona offers.

“The world at large?”

“Days that end in Y?”

“Okay,” Ian cuts off their little comedy routine. “Never mind.”

“No, Ian, come on,” Fiona says. “You can talk to me.” She sounds almost desperate and Ian thinks guiltily of how empty the house is now. He thinks of all the times he ran off without telling her anything, all the times he scared her. He sighs.

“He just doesn’t talk to me much. About important things, I mean.” He shrugs again. “He’s doing a lot better than he used to. He promised he’d try. And I know he _is_ trying. Sometimes I just wish it wasn’t so hard.”

“That boy hasn’t had an easy day in his life,” V says, sounding sad enough about it that Ian wants to hug her.

“I know,” Ian says. “I know I’m asking too much.”

“You’re not asking too much. You’re just frustrated,” Fiona corrects gently. “That’s okay. Something in particular happen?”

“We got in a brawl at a baseball game.”

“With each other?” Fiona clarifies.

“No!” Ian assures her quickly. “We don’t do that.” _Anymore_. “Some guy called us fags. You know.”

Fiona’s lips tighten. “You know, sometimes I really hate this world.”

Ian huffs. “Don’t think you’re alone there. Anyway, I know he’s upset about what happened, but he won’t talk to me about it. And I can’t even tell if he’s mad at _me_.”

“Why would he be mad at you?” V demands. “Not your fault.”

Ian throws up his hands, exasperated. “I don’t know. It’s Mickey!” That doesn’t really clear anything up for either of them, but they don’t know everything Ian and Mickey went through. They know basics, by now, but it’s not like Ian’s ever given anyone a blow-by-blow rundown of the whole thing. Or blowjob-by-blowjob, maybe. He files that one away to tell Mickey. He’ll get a kick out of it.

“Mick’s got issues,” Ian says, making V and Fiona both snort at the understatement. “Hey, we all do,” Ian defends his boyfriend.

“Well, if he’s mad at you, fuck him,” V says. “Or don’t, actually. You know what I mean. The bad kinda fuck him, not the good one.”

“Yeah, we haven’t done that in a while,” Ian mutters. He cringes. He shouldn’t have told them that. No way Mickey would be okay with Ian talking about their sex life. Or lack thereof. But it’s been a few weeks. That’s a pretty long time for them, even with Ian’s meds throwing a wrench in everything.

“Maybe you need to,” Fiona suggests.

“Alright.” Ian holds up his hands. “Mickey’d die if he knew I said anything about that. So we’re done talking about it. Thank you for the book. I’m gonna try to figure out how to make a kindergartener eat something besides spaghetti.”

“Good luck,” Fiona calls after him.

“Fuck him!” V adds.

 

The book seems to agree with Frank. Ian can’t believe it. But Frank _did_ have to sit through mandatory parenting classes a billion times. Maybe something actually stuck. Stranger things have happened.

The thought that Yevgeny’s acting out because of something they’re doing—or not doing—is making Ian’s stomach hurt. He had a low day a while ago. That had to have scared him. Ian tried explaining everything to him, but Yevgeny’s six. It’s hard to make sure he understands. And Ian tried so hard to spend time with Yev when he was low and not let him know how awful Ian felt, but he probably failed.

The parenting book is making Ian feel worse. He switches gears and scours the internet for tips about picky eaters. All he sees are suggestions for how to sneak vegetables into food. That’s not really a problem—Yevgeny will eat vegetables on the side. He just won’t eat a main dish other than spaghetti.

The consensus seems to be that Yevgeny is spoiled and they’re idiots for indulging him. If they let him starve, he’ll break. Ian is not a fan of this idea. Some old lady named _jakeysmama141_ says picky eaters are just _attention seekers_ who want _participation trophies like their parents_. Ian thinks jakeysmama141 can go fuck herself.

He wonders what these experts suggest he should do to explain bipolar disorder to a six-year-old. If they’re so smart, they should try it themselves. Or attempted murder conviction—that’s probably another thing Yevgeny’s confused and upset about. Or prostitution; Svetlana can’t be blameless here. Or the grandfather Yevgeny has no memory of meeting stabbing Ian and trying to break in to kill Mickey. Or the fact that he’s being raised by three people with not a single parent who wasn’t abusive or addicted to drugs or both between them.

Jesus Christ. Is there anything going _right_ for Yevgeny?

Ian’s stewing on all this and drowning in his own guilt for so long Mickey gets home and Ian’s still sitting on their bed with his eyes out of focus.

“Fuck, what’s wrong?” Mickey asks from the doorway. Ian must not look _too_ bad, because Mickey only sounds mildly worried.

“I was trying to figure out how to get Yev to eat and realized no one should’ve ever given us a kid,” Ian says.

Mickey snorts. “Not like anyone asked if we wanted one.”

Ian’s stomach drops when he thinks of Mickey’s tear-filled eyes as Svetlana climbed on top of him. He clenches his jaw and closes his eyes. “Is it hard having Yevgeny around?” He blurts out.

“He’s my son,” Mickey says. “I—I love him.” Ian opens his eyes. Mickey’s chewing at his lip like he does when he’s low-level freaking out. Telling anyone he loves them, whether it’s his own son or the guy he went to prison for, always leaves him jumpy. It makes Ian mad. Not at Mickey—at Terry, mostly, but at the world as a whole, at a whole world of people who treated Mickey like trash for his whole life because of his last name and the monster who held him captive.

“Mickey,” Ian murmurs. “He wasn’t, uh, _conceived_ under the best circumstances.”

Mickey shudders and Ian can tell it was completely involuntarily. He wants to reach for Mickey but doesn’t think Mickey wants to be touched right now.

“He’s here now,” Mickey says gruffly. “What’s the past matter?”

“It matters for you,” Ian says. “You shouldn’t hurt every time you see him.”

“I don’t,” Mickey snaps. “I love him.”

“I know you do,” Ian promises. “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t remind you of being—”

“What’s it fucking matter?” Mickey cuts him off. “What, you think I’m gonna pack up and leave? Sorry, kid, I don’t want to see you anymore because ancient history sucks, so fuck off?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Ian tries to say.

“Fuck you,” Mickey spits. “Think you fucking know everything. Fuck off.” He stomps out of the room and Ian hears the front door open and slam shut. Ian blows out a breath. Well, that went great.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there before his phone beeps—reminder to go get Yevgeny. He wants to just sit for another minute, but he’s not going to leave Yev hanging like that. The poor kid obviously needs all the stability he can get.

Yevgeny seems okay, chattering about school and joining the T-ball team his friends play on—Mickey might hate that—and hopping instead of walking. Then, as they’re walking into the house, Ian makes the mistake of asking,

“Want a snack?”

Yevgeny slams the door shut. He’s still outside. Ian’s inside.

Ian blinks, caught completely off-guard. “Uh, Yev?” He tries the door handle, and Yevgeny shrieks. He’s holding the door closed. Ian could overpower him pretty easily, but he thinks Yev’s being funny. “You little butt, open the door,” he laughs.

“I don’t want chicken!” Yevgeny screams.

“Jesus,” Ian mutters. “Yev, you don’t have to eat any chicken. You can have an apple for a snack.” Yevgeny’s now sobbing loudly. Ian opens the door and Yevgeny doesn’t fight back this time. “Yev, what is going on?”

“I hate chicken and I don’t want to eat it anymore.”

“What’s the problem with chicken?” Ian asks, bewildered.

“It’s gross.”

“Alright, fine, you don’t like chicken,” Ian says. “We won’t have chicken.”

“Promise?” Yevgeny checks, sticking out a pinky.

“Sure.” Ian curls his pinky around Yevgeny’s and they shake. Yevgeny takes off his glasses to wipe at his face. He usually eats a snack when he gets home, but Ian’s afraid to ask again. He doesn’t even say anything when Yevgeny dumps his backpack right in front of the door and leaves it there.

Yevgeny runs off to his room—why he couldn’t just _take his backpack_ , Ian will never know, but he knows he did that as a kid too—and leaves Ian kind of shell-shocked in the living room. Jesus Christ. He has no idea what to do.

When Svetlana gets home, she raises her eyebrows at the backpack blocking the entryway. “Zhenya!” She yells. He comes skidding out of his room, dinosaurs in either hand, and smiles winningly at her.

“Mama, you’re home!” He gives her a big hug and conveniently ignores his backpack.

“рюкзак,” she says, looking at the offending item. Yevgeny groans but tucks his velociraptor under his arm to give himself a free hand to pick up his backpack. He runs off again before she can say anything else. She rounds on Ian and he wishes he could run off to play dinosaurs vs. trucks, too.

“Did he eat snack?” She asks.

“No,” Ian admits. “He had a meltdown when I asked.”

Svetlana sighs. “He will not eat,” she complains. “Only spaghetti.”

“I know,” Ian groans. “What the fuck are we supposed to do?”

“Internet says he should starve.” Svetlana curls her lip. “I will kill anyone who takes food away from my Zhenya.”

Ian snorts. “Yeah, I know. Who thinks starving their kid is a good way to solve a problem?”

“Internet also says is our fault,” Svetlana adds softly, not meeting Ian’s eyes. “Not good parenting.”

“Hey,” Ian says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “We’re doing everything we can. And I think we’re doing pretty good, you know? He’s reading and he’s a good kid. He eats vegetables, right? Better than a lot of other parents can say.”

Svetlana laughs. “He always loves peas,” she says fondly.

“But not creamed corn,” Ian remembers. Svetlana laughs again, louder this time, and leans into him. “I think I freaked him out when I was low a few weeks ago.”

“No,” Svetlana protests. “David is gone. Big change for Yevgeny.”

That’s a good point, but they’re both dancing around the biggest elephant in the room, the absent elephant. Svetlana bites her lip. Before she can say anything, Ian shakes his head. “No way,” he says.

“Could be.”

Ian sits down at the table. “He’s trying so hard,” he says softly.

“He is,” Svetlana agrees, sitting beside him. “Does not mean he is doing right.”

“Hey,” Ian says sharply. She gives him a look. Ian knows he can back off a little—Svetlana loves Mickey, and she’ll fight for him—but he can’t help it sometimes. The whole world tries to kick Mickey down all the fucking time. Ian’s not going to stand idly by and watch it happen. “He already thinks it’s fault,” Ian points out. “I don’t think it is. Not really. Or not only.”

“He thinks whole world is his fault,” Svetlana says.

“Wonder why,” Ian mutters. Svetlana pats his hand.

“We will figure out Zhenya,” she promises. “Piece of shit ex-husband is harder.”

“Do you have to call him that?” Ian asks. “I know it’s a joke, but he already thinks he _is_ a piece of shit.”

Svetlana crosses her arms. “I will stop with piece of shit when he stops with whore.”

Ian considers for a second. “Fair,” he admits. She smirks at him and gets up.

“I make dinner,” she says.

“You don’t have to,” Ian protests. “It’s my night.”

“We all make same thing anyway,” she points out wearily.

“Spaghetti,” they groan at the same time.

“Where is he?” Svetlana asks. She can’t be talking about Yevgeny, since he’s very loudly playing in his room. Ian remembers exactly where Mickey is. Or, rather, the fact that he has no idea where Mickey is.

“I don’t know,” he says. “He left.”

“He left?”

“We got in a fight.”

“With each other?” She checks.

“Yes,” he clarifies. It gets confusing when they keep switching between fighting other people together and fighting each other. “Uh, not physically. But he got mad because I asked if being around Yevgeny is hard.”

“Yevgeny is wonderful,” Svetlana warns.

“Svetlana,” Ian says quietly. “You know why I asked that.”

Svetlana presses her lips together and looks away. “He is not okay.”

“He’s never really been okay.”

The front door swings open and Svetlana and Ian both jump. No one can open a door as quietly as Mickey. No one can open a door as _loudly_ as Mickey, either, but he only slams around when he’s doing it on purpose for intimidation.

“Hey,” Ian says warily.

“Hey,” Mickey answers. He nods at Svetlana. Then he walks into the bedroom without another word. Ian sighs.

“Be right back,” he tells Svetlana.

“You hope,” she mutters. He ignores her.

Ian closes the door behind him when he comes in. Mickey’s shoulders tense up right away. “Don’t wanna talk about it,” he says.

“Mickey,” Ian says quietly. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

Mickey turns away, breathing out harshly. “I can’t.”

“Mick, come on. We promised we’d communicate better!”

“Ian,” Mickey says sharply. “I _can’t_. I can’t talk about this shit.”

Ian sits down on the side of the bed. “Why?”

Mickey presses his hands into his eyes. “I don’t want to think about it, and I sure as shit don’t want _you_ thinking about it.”

“You think I can’t handle it,” Ian realizes.

“I don’t _want_ you to.” Mickey’s looking at the ground, even turned away from Ian. “I don’t want you having that shit in your head. Picturing it.”

Mickey thinks he’s…protecting Ian? As if Ian doesn’t already know that everything in Mickey’s life has been horrific. But he doesn’t want Ian knowing specifics. It’s nice that Mickey wants to protect him—Ian will unpack that later—but Ian can’t help but feel like part of it, a large part, is just Mickey being Mickey.

“I picture it anyway,” Ian tells him. He reaches out a hand for Mickey. It takes a second, but Mickey comes in close and sits beside Ian. Ian slips his arm around Mickey’s waist and closes his eyes when Mickey rests his head against Ian’s shoulder.

“I can’t,” Mickey whispers. “Ian, I can’t talk about it. I…” His voice falters. “I’m sorry.”

Ian turns his head and kisses Mickey’s temple. “Okay,” he relents.

“Okay?” Mickey sounds almost insultingly surprised. Like Ian can’t be flexible.

“Okay,” Ian repeats. “Will you make me a promise?”

Mickey scoffs. “Knew it was too good to be true.”

Ian elbows him gently. “Just promise me that _when_ you can talk about it, you will.”

“Sure, if that ever happens.”

“When,” Ian says firmly. “You’re working hard. And I think if you keep working, maybe go see—”

“God, Ian, don’t.” Mickey sounds so tired. Ian hates it. “I’m not going to a therapist. I’m fine.”

“Mickey.”

“Let it go, Ian. Just…” Mickey stands up and rolls his shoulders. “Just let it go.”

He walks out. Ian watches him go and wonders how Mickey thinks he could possibly do that.

 

Ian’s on shift, arguing with Elena over getting tacos or salad—he actually doesn’t care that much; as long as it’s not fucking spaghetti, but he doesn’t really need to eat tacos after he had sausage for breakfast—when they get a call for an unconscious male at the grocery store. It’s not that uncommon. Someone probably got drunk and blacked out over the little vibrating pony kids are supposed to ride for a quarter.

Mickey’s working, but there’s no way Mickey called it in. If Mickey saw a drunk on the kids’ pony, he’d deal with it himself and leave the guy on the ground to sober up. But at least Ian will get to see Mickey early. He’s been on shift for ten hours and this should be his last call of the day.

“He’s over here,” the manager, Tina, says. She’s staring at Ian with wide eyes. “He just passed out. He’s already awake again.”

“That’s a good thing,” Ian assures her, already looking around her for anyone who looks distressed. “Who was it?”

“Mickey,” Tina says. And there he is, head ducked, chewing his lip. He looks up when he hears Ian’s footsteps and his jaw clenches.

“God fucking dammit,” he swears, causing some guy walking by with his kid to give him a dirty look. “I’m _fine_ , go home.”

“I’m working,” Ian says. His lips feel numb. “I can’t just go home. What happened?”

“Nothing,” Mickey insists. “Just got lightheaded.”

Elena’s talking to Tina, so hopefully she’s getting more details. Mickey’s not being helpful. Ian doesn’t mind _watching_ that; he hates when Mickey does it to him.

“Mick,” Ian murmurs. He gets a hand on Mickey’s arm and Mickey doesn’t shrug him off. “You were unconscious?”

Mickey sighs. “Yeah,” he finally admits. “Not a big deal.”

Ian rubs his thumb over Mickey’s elbow. “Could be a big deal. I’m gonna check your pulse and blood pressure. What happened? Did you hit your head? Did you get dizzy? Did you eat breakfast this morning? I’m guessing you’re not going to let me take you to the hospital.”

“I didn’t hit my head. I ate breakfast,” Mickey says grumpily as Ian puts the cuff on his arm. “Didn’t get dizzy. No way in hell I’m going to the hospital.”

Ian waits, but Mickey doesn’t explain anything else. “Okay?” Ian prompts. “So…what happened? You were fine and then you fell down? That’s not a good sign.” His blood pressure’s fine. A little on the low side, which could’ve made him pass out. Ian lets his fingers linger over Mickey’s bicep when he’s taking off the cuff.

Mickey licks his lips and looks away. “I, uh.” He runs his thumb over his bottom lip, a movement Ian sees in his dreams sometimes. “I couldn’t really breathe.”

“Wait, what?” Ian asks. Elena comes over before Mickey can go on. Mickey’s met her a few times, came to a work picnic with Ian a few weeks back and sat at a wooden table with his leg pressed against Ian’s all afternoon, so he doesn’t move away from Ian, but he gets tight-lipped right away. More tight-lipped, anyway, since he already wasn’t saying much.

“Hey, Mickey,” Elena says easily. “Sounds like you’re not feeling so hot, huh?”

“I’m fine.”

“Tina says you were hyperventilating a bit.” Elena’s always really direct when she questions people. If he can help it, Ian doesn’t let her talk to kids. She scares them.

Mickey scoffs. “Not a big deal.”

“I’m checking your pulse,” Ian reports. He’d like to get Mickey in the ambulance and check him over in there, but he knows that’s not going to happen. “A little fast. Makes sense if you were hyperventilating. What happened?” Ian asks. Mickey glances at Elena out of the corner of his eye. She catches it as easily as Ian does.

“I’ll go see if there are any other witnesses,” she says, like they’re cops or something, then takes off without another word.

“What happened?” Ian repeats. Mickey even lets him put his hand on Mickey’s back. Either he’s actually freaking out, or he can tell Ian’s about to.

“Made me do the checkout line,” Mickey mutters. “Guy came through who was…” He sniffs. “Guy I knew. Inside.”

Ian blinks. Part of him is so surprised Mickey’s even telling him that he’s having trouble processing. Why would Mickey freak out about a guy he knew in prison?

“Bad guy in prison?” Ian ventures.

“No, he was fine,” Mickey says, looking down at where he’s scuffing his shoe on the tile. “Just. You know.” He shrugs. “Saw him and thought…I don’t know.”

Ian wants to give Mickey an actual hug, but he knows there’s no way he’s getting away with that right here where Mickey works. Ian doesn’t think Mickey would be open to that even if he were straight and Ian was a girl. He’s just not a guy who lets people see him getting comfort. When he even lets himself _take_ comfort at all.

“Mickey,” Ian says helplessly. “God, you can’t…this is hurting you.”

Mickey runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You need to talk to someone.” Ian keeps his voice quiet and even, not soothing or condescending or anything else that’ll set Mickey off. He’s listening, and Ian doesn’t want to spook him.

“How would I even do that?” Mickey’s practically whispering, unable to meet Ian’s eyes as he asks. Ian wills himself to stay cool. He cannot believe Mickey sounds even _slightly_ receptive to therapy.

“Well, you could make an appointment with Dr. Saria.” Ian pauses. He gets along with his doctor pretty well, but he thinks Mickey might do better with a woman. He just doesn’t know how Mickey will respond to that suggestion. Sometimes it’s virtually impossible to navigate the minefield of what Terry told Mickey was acceptable.

“I don’t know,” Mickey says.

“You could pick someone different,” Ian says.

“We can’t pay for this shit,” Mickey points out.

“Free clinic,” Ian reminds him. “And I could see about getting you on my insurance.”

Mickey breathes out harshly. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to decide anything right now,” Ian says. “But you can think it over. Look up some doctors, see if anyone sounds good. You should go home right now, though. Take it easy for the rest of the day.”

“I’m not going home,” Mickey protests.

“Yes, you are,” Tina cuts in from behind them. “Go home.”

“I’ll see if someone can pick Yev up from school,” Ian says. “Go home and rest. Take a nap. Eat something with sugar in it.” Ian brushes Mickey’s hair off his forehead and doesn’t get snapped at or pushed away. Mickey’s kind of sweaty. Ian can picture him panicking, struggling to breathe, and it hurts his stomach.

Some of his feelings must show on his face, because Mickey glances around once before saying, “Alright, c’mere,” and pulling Ian in. Ian presses his face to the top of Mickey’s head and breathes deep. He lets go when he feels Mickey twitch.

“Go home,” Ian orders. “Or stay here until I come pick you up.”

“We’re two blocks away,” Mickey says. “I can fucking walk.”

“Mickey,” Ian practically begs.

Ian can see the exact moment Mickey relents. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll go home.”

“Thank you. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

He does his best not to hover while Mickey signs the paperwork for his refusal of medical care. Ian doesn’t want to leave Mickey, but he can’t just leave Elena by herself with the ambulance. They have to get it checked back in and he has to clock out before he can go home. Mickey’s face isn’t helping anything—his eyebrows are furrowed, and he still looks pale. Ian can’t look back at him or he won’t leave.

Ian doesn’t tell Elena to hurry up, but it’s a near thing. She’s rushing anyway, so he really has no reason to rush her. He’s jumping out before she even puts it completely into park, but she doesn’t say anything. She also doesn’t complain about the fact that he’s obviously leaving her to do all the check-in and notes by herself. He sprints inside and grabs his bag from his locker, not stopping to talk to anyone. A few people call out greetings to him and he ignores them. Maybe he’ll feel bad about it later. Probably not.

Fiona doesn’t answer. He can’t call Svetlana—he wants to, and she should know, but he knows Svetlana will leave work early and Mickey will be pissed. Ian curses as a sports car cuts him off. He flips the guy off and calls Lip.

“Hey man,” Lip greets him.

“What time are you done today?” Ian asks.

“Whoa, you okay?” Lips asks, catching the desperation in Ian’s voice.

“No. What time are you done?”

“I have office hours for another forty-five minutes. Ian, what’s going on?” Lip’s starting to sound worried.

“It’s okay,” Ian says, not sure if he’s talking to Lip or himself. “Mickey passed out at work. Had a panic attack or something. Anxiety attack, I guess. Hyperventilated. Can you get Yev from school? Liam doesn’t have a phone so I can’t tell him to just take Yev home with him.”

“He hyperventilated?” Lip asks. “What happened?”

“Drive, you fucking idiot,” Ian spits at a mini-van in front of him.

“Are you driving right now?” Lip asks. “Dude, come on.”

“I have to get home. Can you get Yev? I can call V and see if he can go home with Amy and Gemma.”

“No, it’s fine,” Lip says. “I’ll go get him. You want me to take him to our house or bring him home to you?”

“Can you keep him?” Ian asks. “Just for a little. Like an hour or two? Mickey needs to relax. I’m gonna try to get him to take a nap.”

“Yeah, good luck.” Lip’s voice gets muffled. “Hey, guys, I’m gonna have to cut office hours short. I’m really sorry. Family emergency.”

Ian’s throat gets tight at the way Lip calls Mickey and Yevgeny family. Sometimes he can’t believe how far they’ve all come.

“Thanks, Lip,” Ian says softly as he pulls haphazardly into the driveway.

“No problem. Tell Mickey to feel better, huh?”

Ian snorts. “He’ll tell you to fuck off.”

Lip laughs. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Hey, he’ll be fine, okay? Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out,” Ian protests. He’s kind of freaking out, but he resents the implication.

“Okay,” Lip scoffs. “I’ll bring him home around dinnertime. I don’t feel like spaghetti.”

Ian laughs. “Bye, asshole.” He takes a deep breath before he gets out of the car. He’s worried about Mickey, but he needs to stay calm. If he’s freaking out, he won’t be able to help Mickey. He would love to go in there, feed Mickey, cuddle him into a nap, and then get Mickey on some kind of anti-anxiety medication.

Ian thinks if he’s lucky he can go two for three.

“Mick,” he calls as soon as he opens the door. “Mickey!”

“I’m right here.” Mickey comes out of the kitchen and Ian almost trips over himself to wrap Mickey up in his arms. “I’m fine,” Mickey assures him.

“No, you’re not,” Ian counters. “You’re obviously so not fine.”

Mickey doesn’t argue with him. He buries his face in Ian’s neck. “Tired,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, your body’s all strung out. Come on, let’s take a nap.”

“Gotta get the kid,” Mickey argues.

“Lip’s getting him. You’re sleeping.”

Mickey actually lets Ian lead him down the hall to their bedroom. He steps out of his jeans after Ian unbuttons them and obediently raises his arms for Ian to take off his shirt. Mickey’s basically never like this, and Ian can’t even be happy about it because of the circumstances that got them here.

Ian sits up in the bed and pulls Mickey’s head into his lap so he can run his fingers through Mickey’s hair. Mickey lets out a tiny sigh, a puff of air against Ian’s leg, and Ian has to bite his tongue to keep from crying. None of this shit is fair. Mickey shouldn’t have to go through this.

It takes Mickey about ten minutes to fall asleep, which is a record for him. Ian keeps stroking Mickey’s sweaty hair off his forehead. He usually takes a shower after work, but he must not have today. Maybe when he wakes up they can take one together.

Ian’s phone starts to buzz from the floor somewhere, wherever he kicked off his pants. He’s torn. It could be important—maybe the school wouldn’t let Yev go home with Lip, or maybe Elena noticed something wrong with Mickey’s vitals, or maybe a million other things went wrong—but at the same time, he doesn’t want to move and wake Mickey up.

But then Mickey jerks and makes the whole thing moot. Ian should’ve known Mickey wouldn’t sleep well. He keeps his hands still, not moving them before Mickey’s reoriented himself. When Mickey breathes out and Ian knows he’s back up to speed with the world around him, Ian leans down to look him in the eye.

“My phone’s ringing,” he murmurs. “Hang on, okay?” He gently lifts Mickey’s head up and slides out from under him. When he finds his phone under their scattered clothes, he sighs. It’s Mandy. Ian didn’t call her on his way home like he always does. But if he answers there’s no way he won’t tell her what happened.

“It’s Mandy,” he tells Mickey, coming back to the bed. “Should I answer?”

Mickey gets what he means right away. He licks his lips. “Guess so.”

Yesterday, Ian would’ve been over the moon if Mickey was openly talking about going to therapy and letting Ian tell Mandy what was going on. Now Ian’s just worried Mickey’s doing it because he’s in shock and not paying attention. He puts his hand on Mickey’s cheek.

“You sure?”

Mickey squeezes his eyes closed. “You have to talk to her sometime, right? Gotta tell her why you skipped out on your gossip time.”

Well, he certainly _sounds_ like regular Mickey.

“Hey, Mands,” Ian finally picks up the phone.

“Jeez, asshole, I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere,” Mandy jokes. Ian doesn’t say anything for a second, overwhelmed with the idea that maybe Mickey hit his head. Did he fall? Ian must’ve asked; it’s protocol. But _did_ he ask? “Ian?” Mandy says, not joking anymore. “Did something happen?”

“Um, Mickey,” Ian says. Mandy takes a sharp breath and Ian realizes that sounds way scarier than it needs to. “He’s okay,” he scrambles to promise. “He passed out at work. He woke up right away and he’s fine now. Well, he’s…” He trails off, brushing his thumb over Mickey’s cheek.

“He passed out? What happened? Is he sick? Did someone knock him out?” Mandy peppers him with questions and Ian understands why Mickey was so annoyed with Ian’s questions before.

“He hyperventilated,” Ian tells her. Mandy doesn’t say anything for a second and Ian tries to think of a delicate way to explain what hyperventilating is.

“He got freaked out,” Mandy says quietly. “He does that when he’s trying not to cry.”

“Yeah,” Ian agrees. “He saw a guy from prison.”

“He in trouble?”

“No,” Ian assures her. “He just…”

“Freaked out,” she repeats. They’re both quiet for a minute, and then she asks in a small voice that puts another bruise on Ian’s heart, “Will he talk to me?”

“Mick,” Ian says softly. “She wants to talk to you.” Mickey makes a face and Ian can see the _no_ on the top of his tongue. He covers the microphone on his phone. “She’s worried.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, but he takes the phone. “I’m fine,” he says with no preamble. “Ian’s fucking sitting on me to keep me down.”

That’s a lie, because Mickey is currently on top of Ian, but Ian lets it slide. He traces a little pattern across Mickey’s neck and Mickey shivers but doesn’t move away.

“It’s no big deal,” Mickey goes on. “Want me to put you on speaker and you can tell us about school?” Ian can’t hear Mandy’s response, but Mickey closes his eyes. “I’m gonna get help,” he says so, so softly. Ian’s worried Mandy won’t even hear, but she must because Mickey clenches his jaw against whatever she says. He holds the phone back out to Ian without another word.

“Hey,” Ian says.

Mandy sighs. “Stupid of me to think I could tell him I’m proud, huh?”

Ian laughs sadly. “I know the feeling.”

“Yeah.” They’re quiet for a beat. “Go take care of him. Call me later, okay?”

“I will,” Ian promises. “Love you.”

“Love you too. And him.”

“You know he loves you too,” Ian says, pointed at Mickey. Mickey flips him off, which is actually comforting. Ian puts his phone on the bedside table—they have _bedside tables_ like they’re real adults—and slumps down to properly cuddle Mickey. Mickey burrows close to him.

“This part’s not so bad,” he remarks.

Ian snorts. “You know, no one would believe me if I tried to tell them how cuddly you are.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey says. “I’m not cuddly.” Ian raises his eyebrows, though Mickey can’t see it. Mickey pinches him and says, “Don’t raise your eyebrows at me.”

Ian cracks up laughing. “You can’t even see my face!”

“I know you.”

Ian scooches over to share the pillow. “Yeah, you do.”

Mickey leans in for a kiss and Ian’s all too happy to oblige. “I, uh.” Mickey stops. Ian waits. It takes Mickey a few tries to say important things sometimes, especially after a bad day like today. “I don’t want to go to Dr. Saria,” he finally says. “I don’t like him.”

Ian kindly doesn’t mention that it’s probably because he kind of looks like Kash and Mickey will hold a grudge until the day he dies. He keeps eye contact with Mickey, won’t let him dodge away when he tries.

“But, um,” Mickey goes on. He swallows hard. “You know, the free clinic’s on Wednesday.”

Ian doesn’t make him elaborate. He knows what Mickey’s saying. He kisses Mickey again, making it as soft as possible. “Mickey,” he breathes. “I love you.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “I—you know. I…” Mickey was the one who said it first, all those years ago, and he’d said it easily, but things aren’t exactly the same as they were then.

“It’s okay,” Ian soothes him. “I know.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey snaps. “I love you too. I can say it.”

Ian laughs a little. “Yeah, you’re getting real good at saying it. What’s this, five?”

“Six,” Mickey corrects him. Quietly, he adds, “Don’t make fun of me, man.”

“No, Mickey, I’m not making fun of you,” Ian promises. He puts his hand back on Mickey’s cheek. “I know you hate when I say it, but I’m proud of you.”

“The fuck’s there to be proud of?” Mickey asks, voice shaking.

“Come on, Mick, seriously?” Ian wriggles closer so their noses are touching. “You’re working hard, you’re staying clean, you’re so good with Yev, you’re gonna see a _therapist_. I mean, would you ever have believed you’d do any of that before?”

“No,” Mickey admits. “I would’ve fucking cut anyone who said it.”

“That’s right.” Ian nuzzles their noses together. “I think about the first time I visited you in juvie and it’s like you’re a different person.”

Mickey turns his face away. “Yeah, different person.”

“Hey,” Ian says. “What?”’

Mickey chews at his lip. “At that baseball game,” he starts. “With that guy?”

“Yeah?”

“You wanted me to fight him.” Mickey swallows. “I didn’t want to.”

“Mickey, what are you talking about? I wanted you to fight him?”

“You like when I get all…psycho. You like watching me stomp guys.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I don’t like doing it as much anymore. I don’t…I don’t want to.”

“I like that you don’t try to kill anyone who looks at you anymore,” Ian tells him. “What are you talking about?”

Mickey hesitates, but then he says, “You like the shit-talking, bitch-slapping piece of Southside trash.”

The words sound vaguely familiar, but it takes Ian a second to place them. His heart sinks to his toes when he does. “Mickey, that wasn’t…I was just trying to feel something. The meds made me feel like a zombie and I felt like I was losing you. It wasn’t—Mickey, please.”

Mickey won’t meet Ian’s eyes. “I don’t want to change more than you want. But Ian…I’m different now.”

“I know that,” Ian says, cradling Mickey’s face desperately. “Mickey, I know, and I love you. We’re not kids anymore. You’re still you, but I don’t want you to be the same guy who can’t talk about _any_ feelings without kicking me and calling me a pussy. Okay? I don’t want you to keep hurting because you don’t want to change. I want you to be happy.” Ian’s in tears, but so is Mickey. Ian’s hated himself a lot, at a lot of different points, so he won’t say he’s never hated himself more than in this moment, but he’s got a lot of self-loathing going on. It’s filling his throat, making his nose run.

Mickey sniffles. “I gotta get better for the kid.”

“You gotta get better for _you_ ,” Ian says. “That’s one thing I learned. I couldn’t do it for Fiona or Lip. I couldn’t even do it for you. I had to do it for me.”

Mickey buries his face in Ian’s neck and clings. He’s shuddering, which is as close to crying as Mickey ever gets. It only counts as crying because Mickey thinks it does. Ian kisses his hair and rubs his back. He wants to barricade the door and never let another bad thing happen to Mickey.

“I’m a fucking girl now,” Mickey groans. “Crying all the time.”

“Fuck, Mickey, you got so much to cry about,” Ian reminds him. “Let yourself be a goddamn human once in a while.”

“Uh, you know the other shit the asshole at the game said?” Mickey says tentatively.

“What other shit?” Ian asks. Mickey hesitates, and it clicks. “Oh, the butterball thing?”

“He’s wrong. Okay?”

“Well, not really,” Ian says, mostly keeping his bitterness in check. “But I’m okay with it.”

“So am I,” Mickey says. “You know…more than okay. I—you look good. Really good. He was an asshole and he was probably mad that he's ugly as shit.”

Ian can’t help the smile that takes over his face. “You still think I’m pretty hot, huh?”

Mickey groans. “God, that’s gonna go to your head.”

Ian laughs. “Probably,” he admits. He kisses Mickey. “Thanks. Go back to sleep, okay? You need it.”

“Not gonna be able to sleep. Keep closing my eyes and thinking I’m gonna wake up back in there.”

“Well, you didn’t have me in there,” Ian reminds him firmly, not letting himself think about whose fault that was. “So I’m gonna be right here. Anytime you wake up, you’ll know right away you’re safe.”

Mickey makes a skeptical sound in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t argue. He tangles his legs with Ian’s and wraps an arm around Ian’s waist, pulling them together as snugly as possible. Ian won’t be able to move at all without waking him up, but that’s not a problem. He’s not going anywhere.

Mickey actually sleeps for a solid forty-five minutes before he jerks awake. Ian’s been dozing a little, mostly because there’s nothing else for him to do, but he keeps his tight hold on Mickey and kisses his forehead. Mickey exhales shakily.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Yeah, okay.”

Ian doesn’t release him, but he relaxes a little. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah, great,” Mickey says sarcastically. “How long was it, ten minutes?”

“Forty-five,” Ian says proudly. “Not bad.”

Mickey huffs. “Time is it?”

Ian has to shimmy up the bed a bit to reach his phone. Mickey loosens his hold on Ian only enough to let him move, but he’s still clinging pretty tight. “Four-thirty,” Ian reports.

“Lip’s got the kid?”

“Yeah, he said he’ll bring him home around dinner. You ready for that?”

Mickey sighs. “I’m a shitty dad.”

Ian stops himself from immediately arguing. Weighed against the rest of the world, Mickey’s not so great, probably. But he loves Yevgeny and wants him to be happy. “Well, you’re about a billion times better than yours,” Ian points out instead. “That’s not so bad.”

Mickey snorts. “Yeah, that makes me feel better.”

“It does make you feel better,” Ian says, because he knows it. “It’s your goal.”

“Yeah.” Mickey sighs again. “He deserves better.”

“Well, he wants you,” Ian reminds him. “And you’re who he’s got. So tough shit.”

Mickey laughs a little. “God, no one else would think that’s a pep talk.”

“I’m great at pep talks.”

“Yeah, sure.” Mickey widens his eyes in exaggerated sarcasm and Ian gently knees him in the balls in retaliation. Mickey cackles at him and says,

“Hey, don’t hurt those; you like those.”

Ian’s thinking of demonstrating his like for those when his phone starts buzzing. He blows out a breath. “Why does the whole world keep cock-blocking us?”

Mickey laughs out loud. “Probably karma.”

“Fuck karma,” Ian mutters. “Hey,” he answers his phone.

“Least we’d be fucking something,” Mickey says back, and Ian can’t hold in his laugh.

“Are you answering me while you’re fucking?” Lip demands. It makes Ian laugh harder.

“No,” he gasps. “That’s the problem.”

“So…things sound okay?” Lip ventures. “Everyone all good?”

“We’re alright,” Ian says, lacing his free hand with Mickey’s. “You ready to bring Yev home?”

“I can keep him longer if you want,” Lip says. “Full disclosure, Deb’s here and might just keep him forever.”

Ian snorts. “I bet she’d bring him back after two meals. Or she’d actually make you do your own babysitting.”

“Hey, I think I can handle making spaghetti for my own nephew,” Lip defends himself.

Ian’s throat tightens up. “Nephew, huh?”

“Ugh, shut up,” Lip says. “We all know you’re ghetto married.”

“Bring our kid home, asshole.”

“10-4.”

Ian settles back down, smiling over at Mickey across the pillow. Mickey looks back at him steadily. Most people would probably classify their lives as hard, even flat-out shitty. But Mickey makes a face at him and then leans in to kiss him, and Ian’s brother is bringing their weird three-parented kid home, and tomorrow they’re going to wake up and do it all over again.

Ian might have a different idea of what makes a good life than most people. But he’s happy, and he knows that makes him luckier than most.

 

“Dad’s gonna be home soon!” Yevgeny declares, eyes on the clock. “He comes home when the clock says twelve-four-five.”

“That’s right, good job,” Ian praises him. “And when Dad gets home we’re going to…?”

“Don’t give him a hug right away but when he’s ready give him a _big_ hug,” Yevgeny parrots obediently. “A big _huge_ hug!” Mickey’s been going to his therapist for almost a month now, but getting Yevgeny to give him some space to decompress when he gets home is still a work in progress. Partially because Mickey always feels guilty _taking_ space to decompress.

“Biggest hug you can give,” Svetlana adds.

“It’s gonna be a really big hug,” Yevgeny warns them. “I’m gonna pick him up.”

Ian and Svetlana make eye contact and have to look away before they laugh at Yevgeny. Mickey’s right on time, key scraping in the lock the second the clock turns over to 12:45. Yevgeny laughs in delight at how on time Mickey is, but he sobers his face right away.

“Hey,” Mickey calls out.

“Hello,” Yevgeny answers somberly. “How was your doctor?”

Mickey looks weirded out. “Fine.”

“Did you have to get a shot?”

“Different kind of doctor,” Ian tells him.

“Doctors help you stay healthy and get better when you’re sick,” Yevgeny reminds them all.

“That is why he goes,” Svetlana agrees. “To feel better.”

“Dad,” Yevgeny says, all solemn eyes. “Do you feel better?”

Mickey looks unimpressed. “The fuck’s going on?”

“I’m being real good and not hugging you until you’re ready,” Yevgeny reports.

“Oh yeah?” Mickey asks, raising his eyebrows at Ian and Svetlana. “Well, guess what, little man?”

“What?”

“I want a hug.”

“Okay!” Yevgeny yells, scrambling over. He launches himself into Mickey’s arms—Mickey picks _him_ up, not the other way around—and makes a lot of noise letting Mickey know he’s hugging him as tight as he can.

“Dad, was that the biggest hug you ever got?” Yevgeny asks after Mickey sits on the floor with him.

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Mickey says. “Ian’s given me some pretty big hugs.”

Yevgeny thinks this over. “Well…he’s bigger than me. Maybe his hugs are bigger.”

“Maybe you should give him an even bigger hug,” Ian suggests. “See if you can beat me.”

“I can,” Yevgeny says confidently. “Are you ready, Dad?”

Mickey looks over and locks eyes with Ian. His smile is so soft. Ian’s heart feels full, watching Mickey and Yevgeny, sitting here with Svetlana. He’s going to see his siblings later today, if Mickey feels up to a big Gallagher dinner, and Yevgeny will probably not throw a screaming fit over the food because they've been working on talking things through and setting boundaries. Mickey’s smile gets a little bigger, like he knows how happy Ian is. He probably does—he’s always been good at reading Ian.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, not taking his eyes off Ian. “Yeah, I’m ready.”


End file.
